


My Kingdom Come

by wishfulmish



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Family, Gen, One-Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 17:34:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2516102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wishfulmish/pseuds/wishfulmish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel has made mistakes, and he isn't ashamed to admit this. But then so have they all, and in the end, that's what joins a family together...</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Kingdom Come

Castiel has blood on his hands. Not present, physical blood, coating his skin like scarlet gloves, but an echo of it, a memory stashed away in a part of his mind he'd rather not access, simmering and bubbling and occasionally spilling onto his conscious thoughts and turning him catatonic. It's like a needle driven into his brain, making any sort of cognisance impossible, swamping him with memories of bodies and burning and innocent screams. It _hurts_ , and he _hurts_ , and he doesn't deserve to, because he wasn't on the receiving end. He didn't have to endure the suffering.

He sits at the table in the Bunker in the dead of night, head in hands, inhaling and exhaling. It doesn't exactly help - although his vessel requires oxygen, the motion of breathing still tends to slip his mind in the more desperate moments, and in times of dire distress, it becomes a chore. Such as it is now, when he has to make a conscious effort to draw in every rattling lungful. The silence in the place is pressing; Sam and Dean must have gone to sleep, if they even sleep any more - retired to their rooms, at least. He was not paying attention when they left. If he thinks back on it, he can faintly remember Sam uttering a goodnight.

Dean said nothing.

The weight of the recent times - the angel tablet, Naomi's control, Samandriel's death and the cold-blooded murder of all those at Biggerson's - makes Cas' shoulders sag so badly he fears he'll hit the ground at any moment. It's a lifetime's worth of guilt on top of several, and something he's not sure he can deal with again. Being a traitor. Betraying his family.

He's not sure when exactly the Winchesters became family to him. At some point, they just... _did._ And he's glad of that.

Of course, his love of humanity is also what has brought him down so often. Yet his love of his seraphic siblings has done the same. To blame one or the other is a mistake, and to blame both leaves him with no solution. So he does the right thing and blames himself, because really, there is no other culprit. _He_ brought the Leviathans back to this world, _he_ started this whole mess with his aspirations, dreams of banding together, actions that tore apart. _He_ became a soldier in an effort to stop the war. And no matter how much evidence he has to justify himself – _I was doing what I thought was right, I had only good intentions in mind, I never wanted to hurt you –_ it will all amount to nothing. He is the epicentre, the source and the cause, and there is no excusing that.

They look at him differently now, the brothers. Dean with a sharp glance and taut mouth, and Sam with something that is not clemency, not pity, but a mixture of the two. He wishes he would just loathe him as well. The anger and frustration are easy blows to take, but he wants no empathy from the man he shunned as Lucifer's vessel. He turned his nose up at the younger Winchester, when Sam was resilient, when Sam fought, and when Castiel let himself be taken right at the start.

And it's happened again, with the vampire Benny. Benny who was loyal, while Castiel broke faith.

It is times like these that he wonders the true difference between angels and demons, if the lines are merely blurred or fully entwined. Perhaps it's that demons have come to accept the abominations that they are, whilst angels are still shaking their heads and crossing their arms and stamping their feet with a sulky, “It's not true!”, petulant children with pouting lips that will never truly vanish no matter how many times they're appeased. It's disgusting, really, and a cruelty enforced on the weaker, but then the universe has never been a gracious host.

Castiel's mind has caged him so thoroughly, bound him so tight in these thoughts, that it is not until the third time someone clears their throat, the sound riddled with impatience and a severe lack of tolerance, that he even gets a sliver of his attention to return to the real world. When it does, his immediate wish is he'd remained in his previous state, that he'd curled up in a tight ball until the distractions and assailants of the outside world just washed away. But he didn't, and now he's staring into a pair of hard emerald eyes, ringed with shadows so prominent they are almost spectacles of a sort. The look Dean is giving him is that of a stranger, devoid of recognition or any ounce of fondness, as if they'd never even met, as if Castiel hadn't been the one to save him from an eternity cloaked in fire. But it's justified, Castiel tells himself. Dean's hurt too much and now all he can do is strike back, lash out at the aggressor to ensure they keep their space, to ensure they don't harm the already fragile wall he's built around himself. And anyway, Castiel deserves it. Unflinching under the Hunter's cold stare, he has to remind himself of this, repeat it like a mantra. _I deserve it, I deserve it, I deserve it._

It's Dean that breaks first, surprisingly. His head jerks to the side and he grunts out a practically inaudible question as to whether Castiel will be going to bed soon.

Castiel takes a moment to ponder this. He does not require sleep – although he experienced it while human, it is not a habit he ended up taking on, and as his nights have recently been spent running, that is perhaps a good thing. He does, however, remember the blissful feeling of letting it all go, closing his eyes and succumbing to a welcome oblivion. He did not dream. In his state he should have had the capacity to, but for some reason those visions alluded him. It is not something he dwells on, for now the idea of dipping back into that darkness is a Holy Grail lain out for him. It glints and his fingers itch to snatch it up.

Then Dean shuffles his feet and the angel is reminded of his current predicament. No doubt the brothers have him a room prepared, but he does not want to accept it. It would feel like taking advantage of the hospitality they've already graced him with in letting him in this place, and before he knows what's happening he's shaking his head, the phrase, “I'll stay out here,” falling from his lips. Dean looks a little taken aback, eyes widening and brow beginning to furrow, but the emotion is there and gone and so very fleeting. Then he's walking away, stooping to pick up something, his back like a ramrod as he straightens. He comes back over, one hand fisted in his jeans pocket, the other clutching the retrieved object. He tosses it to Cas with an unceremonious jerk.

Castiel feels a light material land on his body, and picks it up to reveal a woollen blanket, baby blue and frayed at the edges. It's soft against his skin, coated with a sweet scent too fresh to have originated from the Bunker yet still having clung to the fabric for many years. He looks up to Dean with questions dancing in his eyes. Dean remains silent, lips tight.

“Thank you,” Castiel says, and wraps the blanket tight around himself. The heat it provides is greatly appreciated.

Dean merely nods, the gesture lacking energy, and the visible draining of his body makes Castiel fumble with words he can say to the Hunter, none of them fitting. Sometimes he thinks back to the time when they were on Code Red, apocalypse impending, and Dean took him out for what might have been their last night. The way he'd laughed at Castiel's screw ups, as if he'd never had anyone to share that with. There was Sam, of course, but brothers didn't exactly count. It was during that time that Castiel realised although he'd never had a best friend – that strange human relationship in which they grinned and joked and performed acts that were exceedingly stupid and just _knew_ each other – ...Dean Winchester hadn't, either.

The chances of being Dean's best buddy are of course now scattered to the wind, but if it's to be just mere acquaintances, he'll settle. If there's one thing Castiel's learnt in his many years on Heaven and Earth, it's how to make do.

The Hunter's exit is still sans goodnight, but Castiel watches him go and finds he doesn't mind. Family doesn't have to voice certain things, he's discovering. And like it or not, the three of them are just one dysfunctional family – if he looks at Dean out of the corner of his eye, he can sometimes see the demon he almost become. They'll be times when Sam's doing something as simple as placing a book on a shelf, and when the sun hits his face, Castiel imagines the dark malice it could've held, the malevolence of the great creature in the Pit, his very own brother. And then he sees himself in the mirror, haggard and lost, and his mouth twists and his pupils burn and there is blood and death all around. He is God once more, and he is angry with the world.

But that's fine. They'll always be those memories, clinging, and although they are still raw after the most recent events, the cuts and bruises will heal. Dean's face will soften, his laugh may return. Sam's eyes will no longer swim with caution and pity. And Castiel won't feel this crushing weight, threatening to make his chest cave in. Yes, they are broken, and they'll gather and mend and break again, but isn't that what family is? People huddling together, helping to patch each other up before the next fall.

 


End file.
